


Release from the Chains: Prompted

by Zevgirl



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Drabble, F/M, Ficlet, One Shot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-18
Updated: 2012-04-30
Packaged: 2017-11-03 21:27:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/386142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zevgirl/pseuds/Zevgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>These will be prompt-based ficlets or drabbles set in the Release from the Chains DA2 universe. They are primarily for back-story, character development and motivations, and as a writing exercise. Most will feature Finola Hawke, Seneschal Bran and Sebastian Vael, but other characters will be here too. Although this is starting out with an M-rated ficlet, they will not all be racy, but the M rating will remain, of course.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Official Business

"I'm getting my hair cut. Short."

"You will not," the Seneschal says with a stern look. "I forbid it."

"You forbid it?" Finola repeats in a low voice he has come to recognize as a taunt. "I will do as I please," she asserts with a coy grin. "Do you wish me to continue or not?"

As an answer, he pulls her into his arms and kisses her soundly before pushing her down to her knees again, leaving her breathless. His eyes meet hers. "Excite me, Viscountess." Seeking hands grope for her head, his fingers tangling in the loose, silken locks, pressing her ever closer to him. Breathing becomes a challenge as she grips his cock and strokes with increasing fervor. "Do it now."

The tip of her tongue feathers over his hard flesh teasing with gentle flicks. Bran moans, lost in the grip of an insatiable passion now.

Then she stops, her expression growing mischievous. "How do you _properly_ ask me, Seneschal?" She grins at his dramatic sigh of woe.

The tables are turned now. Finola is mastering him, and it might be his undoing. "Please, my dear Viscountess."

"Say more. Tell me what you _want_."

A rush sweeps through his body. Hearing this new deep and commanding tone of hers sends tingling sensations across his skin, blood pounding through him. "I'll do anything you ask of me if you let me come. I _need_ to come," he begs, albeit for her benefit. But he cringes as she digs her nails into his hips, thinking he might explode even without her mouth on him yet.

"I want to please you, Seneschal, but you must _tell_ me to suck you," she orders in a breathy yet authoritative tone.

The confidence in her voice adds to his desire. A shiver races down his spine and his cock jerks as he watches her with half-lidded eyes, unable to look away. He clenches his teeth tighter, the words on the tip of his tongue. "Please suck me. _Please_."

"Good." His body is rigid, like a statue. He stares past her now, past the table, to the wall. "And I want to _hear_ you come, Seneschal. Do you understand?"

Emotion sweeps through him then, too intense, too filled with needs and desires he has never known. He simply nods.

Bran shivers as Finola opens her mouth and takes as much of his length as she can. "I've taught you too _well_ ," he gasps, his last word pitched high and drawn out. Hands fist in her mane of golden hair as he swells, and he moans louder and louder in pleasure, deep in the moment, lost. He feels her wild energy, the knowledge of what she was doing to him making her suck harder and faster. With a final snap of his hips, he bursts, warm and salty, into her mouth.

She raises her head, out of breath, although not as much as he is, and she smiles at the sight of his utter relaxation. "Can we get back to work now?" Finola grins and maneuvers herself away and out of his reach.

"Absolutely, Viscountess." He drops his hands but his arrogant expression doesn't slip an inch. He knows she does not think him a bastard, or a liar, or a user. In fact, he is all too aware that he has become her voluntary slave, for the time being.

"Are you all right?" she asks, straightening her clothes, then quickly tying her hair up. She eyes him for a long moment. "You seem… preoccupied."

He stares at her and wonders how she always knows when to question his thoughts, how she finds her way into his mind time after time. More than physical, she affects him in ways he doesn't care to admit, deepening his passions more than he should allow. "Back to the grind, then, Finola?"

"Stop your brooding this instant, Bran." She marches forward and pulls him by his shirt, bringing him in close, right in her face, and she snarls, "Kiss me instead."

He sees it then, he sees her seeking comfort from _him_.

_What a pair_ , he thinks. He may very well be her last hope, and she, his. There is no damn way this woman is getting away from him. Ever.


	2. A Lesson Learned

It seems impossible that more than four years have passed since the day she met Sebastian Vael in the Chantry, the day which had become the most important one in her life. That fateful morning had changed her existence from one of discontent and uncertainty to something quite precious. Since then, her thoughts have been preoccupied with him. He was not the innocent dolt she expected either. Their hours together were filled with intelligent conversation, quiet times, and laughter. There was a sense of trust, but no passion or intimacy, no romance or commitment. But if anyone else had seen what she had seen in his eyes over the years, there wouldn't be any doubt. He needed her. His eyes told her so.

Now, somewhere along the winding paths of the Wounded Coast, Sebastian finally offers Hawke an archery lesson. When camp is finally made, when the sun begins its creeping descent, he appears at her side, bow and quiver in hand, then leads her to a target made of driftwood.

She smiles a tremulous smile, and he steadies her with one hand at her waist. "You seem nervous, Hawke. I assure you, I will not scold you if you make a mistake."

_Maybe I want you to scold me…._

He stands behind her, guiding her hands on the bow. Then he nocks an arrow. "With both eyes open, focus on the arrow in the target, take a deep breath, and slowly draw back."

Rough hands adjust her fingers, holding tension on the string. He pulls back, her cool hand beneath his warm one. She feels a rising heat when he whispers the release commands in her ear, his cheek brushing against her hair. Her heart gives a feverish leap. The arrow flies but dips down and under the target. She curses and he laughs.

"Try again, Hawke." His foot bumps her heel, gently easing her legs apart, adjusting her stance. She tries to ignore the sensations settling in places yet untouched by any man's hands. He leans closer, his scent pure male, and he murmurs in her ear again. "Tighten your back muscles even more before the moment of release. Then, your drawing hand should totally relax as the string escapes."

She manages to squeak out a response. "So simple, is it?"

"Yes." He wears his confidence and adept skill like a second skin, and she almost laughs at his haughty posturing, but smiles demurely instead.

Planting her feet firmly beneath her, she follows his direction obediently. She feels the warmth of his breath on her face, and she savors the closeness of his body, now flush against her, so strong and comforting it sets her on fire. But she pushes that and everything else out of her mind using the discipline she's honed over the years, and focuses on the target.

Dozens of arrows later, as the clouds begin to merge and grow with rain, Hawke's arrows have finally come closer to the bulls-eye.

"Tomorrow we shall try again, Hawke. You have come a long way this afternoon."

"Maker's breath, Sebastian. I'm a rogue! This should be as easy as spending money."

"To make progress, you must practice the skills that are the means to the end." He chuckles at her silly fit of ego. "Don't get frustrated, get focused. You're a fast learner. It will get easier, don't worry."

"And I have the best teacher," she whispers, worshipping him with her gaze.

He stares at her with unblinking eyes, giving the impression he is about to speak. But the sky opens up and the rain comes down, interrupting the moment, sending both teacher and student to their own tents in a sprint.

Finola smiles to herself, confident in her abilities, or lack thereof, as the need should arise. She knows how she feels about him, and that won't change. What if she could make him love her, truly love her? Then when the time comes, perhaps he would understand. _I love him so much, how could he not?_

On her bedroll, she flips through the pages of a book, its cover worn from years of attention. Searching for a specific section, her finger jabs a page, the passage found.

**_Part 3 of How to Trick a Man into Loving You:_ ** _The Desire to Protect_

_…Not that you should act helpless, but letting him see your vulnerable side will bring him closer because it unlocks his instincts to take care of you._

"The one time Isabela has come through for me," she mutters. "What else can I do?" The sentiment, the word, still echoes in her head as she reads. "He will _love_ me… someday."


	3. The Best Medicine

Finola takes the steps two at a time, practically jogging past the disease-ridden inhabitants of Darktown, doing anything to make her way through quicker. Varric and Isabela huff along behind her, making wisecracks about Finola's delicate sensibilities. She ignores their digs and moves even faster until she approaches the doors to Anders' clinic. She takes a deep breath and sighs. _I can only imagine the whining I'm about to hear._

She sees a man standing beside Anders, his head pitched forward, hands clenched tightly at his sides, deep in conversation.

_Is that… What is the Seneschal doing here?_ Finola bites her lip, scarcely able to believe her eyes. _Here of all places!_

She ducks into the doorway, watching, overhearing snippets of their exchange.

"And that will, ah, stop the itch?"

_No fucking way…._ Finola isn't quite sure whether to laugh or throw up. She knows he probably sleeps with every woman he comes across, half the young women in Kirkwall without doubt, and many older women, too. He certainly makes the rounds at the Rose. But _this_? This is news. He has managed to pick up… _something_ from one of the many harlots he associates with. Finola shudders, unable even to think of the word "disease" when it comes to meticulous and arrogant Seneschal Bran. _How could he have been so careless?_

"Yes, this will take care of it," Anders answers. "Though I would stay away from women you meet in the port. Pirates tend to… dock in unsavory places."

Isabela rushes past Finola, a heated look in her eyes. "I heard that!" Stopping in front of the Seneschal, she looks him over from head to toe, pausing not so discreetly at his midsection. "I bet I can guess who got you into this predicament." The Seneschal looks at her, aghast, caught off guard by her sudden appearance. Isabela leans in and whispers to him. "Don't worry, I won't tell the others. It can be our little secret." She smiles in triumph and he looks at her with indifference.

"Go on and spread your rumors, trollop. It will have no influence on my life whatsoever." With that, Isabela rolls her eyes and laughs out loud.

The Seneschal then catches Varric's eye as he wanders into the clinic, already talking, joking, making fun of the piles of torn sheets and the dingy decor, but ignoring Bran's embarrassing predicament. Turning to leave, Bran sees Finola standing there, her cheeks reddened, hands on her hips, staring at him in utter disgust. He has an unbidden desire to run back down the stairs and hide, although he is not sure why he cares what she thinks. Nodding and smirking, Finola looks as if she is ready to chastise him, but Anders speaks up.

"Just use the salve if it comes back."

"Thank you, Anders." Bran stuffs the medication into a pocket and moves past the pirate and the dwarf, heading in Finola's direction.

Finola remembers the expression Bran wore when she spied him at the Blooming Rose the other night, that same strange look on his face now. _He_ is _embarrassed,_ she thinks, somewhat gleefully _. At least he seems uncomfortable, trying to hightail out of here without so much as a word to me. Oh, I can't let his opportunity pass._

"Seneschal, if you have a moment…?" She pauses and studies him, his unexpectedly elegant nose, and the chiseled planes of his face.

"Yes," he sighs dramatically. "What _is_ it, Serah Hawke?"

Amused by his dramatics, she smiles, noticing his eyes. "I was going to stop by the Keep, but since you're here…." She had never really looked this deep into his eyes before. They are beautiful eyes, and despite his outward annoyance, his gaze is kind, with something else there in the amber depths. It isn't so much what she sees as what she feels, and it softens her opinion of him.

"Well, out with it already." Bran fusses with his hair, brushing imaginary strays back into place. "I'm a busy man."

"I just wanted to thank you for… facilitating my purchase of the Amell Estate."

"You should be thanking Viscount Dumar." He dismisses her gratitude with a wave of his hand. "I had nothing to do with it."

"I am well aware you have more influence over Dumar's decisions than you let on, Seneschal."

"I simply do my job. How would it look if the Viscount allowed the wealthiest, and dare I say, the most popular woman in Kirkwall to continue living in the squalor of Lowtown?"

"Well, you're awfully high and mighty for someone who is here in Darktown seeking medical aid for… an _undisclosed_ illness."

He snickers. "A little discomfort is a small price to pay for hours of pleasure and decadence." As she looks at him, clearly bewildered, he sees the frustration in those wide blue eyes of hers, but he can't stop the next taunt on the tip of his tongue. "Can you say the same of your time spent?"

His words cut her like daggers though; she hates hearing the truth of her lonely existence. "No, I cannot," she says stoically. "But given Dumar's ineffective methods and decreasing popularity, I think my future good times look quite promising compared to yours."

With maddening ease, he ignores her attempt to provoke him, laughing softly to himself. "You should let hair down and enjoy life's hedonistic pleasures, Serah Hawke. I think it would do wonders for your irritable disposition."

Flustered by his bold opinion, her lips turn down in a slight frown, but even in the dim light of the clinic, he can see her eyes glint with challenge.

"I'm sorry you dislike my personality, Seneschal." With nothing more to say, she holds her head up and turns toward Anders, but the Seneschal touches her sleeve, stopping her.

"Never apologize for who you are. Or for what you want." With a grin, he walks out the door, leaving her to ponder.

Anders's vocal dissatisfaction with the templars grows louder, breaking through Finola's thoughts. When she turns, Isabela and Varric are nodding, trying to joke in between each of the mage's complaints.

Finola closes her eyes and rubs her temples, wondering why the Seneschal's face is all she can see in her mind. "What's wrong now, Anders?"

"Things just keep getting worse, Hawke. I had templars practically on my doorstep the other night."

Anders continues to ramble on and on. _Maker's breath, someone shut him up already._ Finola decides to tune him out, not wanting to listen to his "mages versus the world" rubbish anymore. _Maybe pleasure_ is _the best medicine of all. Could t_ _he Seneschal be right?_ The tingling feeling in her stomach tells her he could be.


	4. A Shoulder to Cry On

Limp bodies lay all around her, grotesquely distorted in death. A tear slips down her cheek as the blood drains from a young woman's throat, the same blood that turned her silver steel to crimson. Someone's daughter, lover or friend, killed by Finola's hand for wanting pocket change and a chance to make their mark in Kirkwall. Finola closes her eyes, needing to see his face, his high cheekbones and ginger hair perfectly placed, but most of all, she longs to see the acceptance in his amber eyes.

Leaving her companions behind, she flees from the alleyway, heading to Hightown alone. When she enters her house, no cheers or accolades resound, nothing but silence to keep her company. Her mother is long gone, her sister in Amaranthine, countless others absent or just dead. As she climbs the stairs to her elegant chamber, the echoes of the dying street thugs ring in her ears. It never used to be this way, never used to bother her. The numbers of the dead by her hands are incalculable, and they are taking their toll on her resolve.

Bloody armor and soiled boots are tossed aside before she takes refuge in a hot bath, her limbs folded up, knees pulled to her chin. Minutes go by, quiet and secluded, and she can't bear the silence. Without intending to speak, it comes out of her in a rush. "I can't stand it!"

She throws on some clothes and hustles downstairs, running across the way to his house and entering through the garden gate. She bursts through the door, sees the sitting room is empty, and immediately goes to his bedroom. Just as she is about to open the door, she pauses, collecting herself and straightening her clothes and hair. She manages a smile beneath the tears, using the sleeve of her shirt to wipe away the evidence.

"Bran?"

"Fin? Is that you?" He opens the door cautiously, surprised by her late appearance. "I assumed you were not coming tonight."

"Sorry," she mutters. "I was delayed in Lowtown. We finally finished off those thugs trying to take over the streets."

"The bloody Guard should have taken care of them. Your position does not make you invincible, _Champion_." He says her title as if it leaves a bad taste on his tongue, curdling in his mouth like sour milk. "I shall speak to Aveline if you will not."

"Do not interfere, Bran."

"I wouldn't call worry interfering," he argues, closing the distance between them, concern clearly written on his face. "You've been crying," he says, feeling a little foolish for stating the obvious. Her eyes meet his, her pain palpable, a living, breathing thing. "Tell me what has you so upset," he demands in a gentle voice, a comforting smile on his lips. Then the smile fades and his expression grows serious. "You can tell me anything, Fin."

"Why do you care? Once I'm Viscountess I won't be fighting much anyway."

He knows why she questions him, why her words are spat like venom. "Like you, I only want the best for Kirkwall. But to risk your life every day... It's not necessary, not anymore. You don't need the praise or the money. Why do you do it?"

"I wish…." Her head drops, and she sighs. "Can I stay here tonight?" The question is ridiculous, she knows, but it must be asked.

"You think I'd let you leave?" He smiles, the little wrinkles around his eyes seeming to light up his face. Taking her in his arms, he holds her close and whispers something in her ear. He begins to stroke her hair, then he holds her away from his body. She's looking down, but he takes a finger and lifts her chin. "You'll be fine. I promise."

"I hate decisions, not knowing what the right choices are." His eyes are on her, serious and clear, reading her, willing her to trust him, and she does. "I don't know where my future lies anymore."

He takes her hand, pressing it to his chest, and she feels the strong beat of his heart. "You, my dear, will retire to a life of decadence, and you will want for nothing."

She laughs finally. "Were it only to be so, Bran."

"It _will_ be so." He takes her face in his hands and kisses her with a fierce possessiveness. "One day, you will forget all the tragic events that have transpired these last years. You will hear the laughter of children. The birds will sing again, and all will be right in the world."

His dramatic flair makes her smile. "Like a fairy tale," she says, her hand sweeping across his cheek. "It is a lovely thought though." The look on his face and in his eyes, so full of life, is wavering, sometimes flashing wariness, but always the most sincere affection. She believes him for a moment, relishes in the ideal future he wants to create for her. "I _do_ want to believe that." Tears shine in her eyes. Uneasy, she pulls her to him and kisses his cheek.

He reaches out suddenly, grasping her hand so she cannot resist or pull away. "I know what you need right now," he whispers.

She doesn't open her eyes as he carries her to the bed and then gently peels her clothes from her aching body. His voice is soft, her fairy tale story unfolding with his every word, soothing her as he runs his fingers along her leg. He pauses to knead the ball of her foot, talking of personal masseurs and ladies-in-waiting, and she smiles for him.

When her eyes open, she stares into his as he crawls toward her. She reaches out, and when he lies atop her, whispering more of the enchanting tale of her future, she seeks out the familiar comfort of his arms. She clings to his broad shoulders, pulling him closer, her nails biting into his skin.

Feeling the sturdiness of her limbs beneath him, he does not take his time. He roars as they become one, as she is his once again. Their bodies press against each other, hips cradling hips, and at the immediate awareness of their shared affection, they both gasp. For a moment, they allow themselves the exquisite torture of being still. Then he lays claim to her body and soul with the final push she needs to fall over the edge and into an ocean of sensation.

Nothing exists but the feel of his fingertips smoothing over her skin and the sound of her heart booming in her ears. Her breathing matches his, gradually slowing, her long fingers caressing his face. The lovers gaze at one another.

"Have you ever met Empress Celene, Bran? Hers must be a fairy tale life. "

"I've never met her formally, but I did see her once. She's young, average looking, but she appears much older. Not married either." He kisses Finola's lips, her eyes, and her ears. "No man wants her."

She giggles at his lie. "Maybe she's saving herself for true love."

"Like you?"

She knows, looking into his tender eyes, that he is no ordinary man, and tonight is going to be a time to treasure. She feels her soul falling down, down into his gaze and she closes her eyes. "Sometimes I think true love is an illusion spun for young girls to lure them into marriage. It's probably nothing but a myth."

"It is no myth." Bran cradles her head in his hands and moves his face closer to hers. "Is that how you really feel?" he asks, holding her gaze.

She averts her eyes. "No."

Bran watches the rush of emotion sweep over her face, sees the tears well in her eyes and trickle from their corners. Wrapping his arms around her, he hugs her close, lowering his voice to an intimate whisper. "Shall I tell you more of Finola's story?"

Nodding her head twice, she snuggles closer to the reassuring warmth of his body. Her future _is_ bright and without limit. He has convinced her of that much. She settles into the crook of his arm and lays her head on his shoulder, basking in the moment, in the glorious, dizzying sensation of being the center of this one man's attention.


	5. Behind the Smile

"Anders's manifesto?" Finola flipped through the pages, not looking at the words written on the page, just staring past them. "When was he even here, Bodahn?"

"He's still here, messere." The dwarf sidled up to her and spoke low. "In the library."

"But Sebastian will be here soon and I have to get ready." Finola sighed as if she were about to lift a hundred-pound sack. "Maker's breath. What does he want?"

"I'm sorry, I don't rightly know, messere."

Bodahn looked offended by her snappish tone, and she softened, eager to be rid of Anders so she could primp before Sebastian showed up. "I'm not mad at you, Bodahn. Why don't you take the rest of the evening off? Take Sandal and go for a walk or something."

"Oh, that's a splendid idea." He beamed with delight, shouting to his son. "Sandal! Get your boots. We're heading out!"

_I guess I'll see what Anders wants,_ she thought as she heard the front door close.

Finola and Anders were not the best of friends, but they seemed to tolerate each other well enough most days. She couldn't fault him for following his conscience. It wasn't as if he just did the easy or convenient thing. Bethany was still alive thanks to his intervention; Finola would never forget what he did that day in the Deep Roads. So, when Anders needed a place to relax and rejuvenate, she told him to consider her house his second home. She spent little time there anyway. He took her up on the offer frequently over the years, but in recent months, she had scarcely seen him and assumed he was too busy at the clinic, too tired to make the trip to Hightown.

Walking into the library, she found him asleep on the couch, his staff on the floor and blankets wrapped around him like a cocoon.

"Anders," she said softly, and he shifted. Placing her hand above his brow, she studied his pallid color and the beads of perspiration on his forehead. He was warm, but not feverish. "Anders, are you all right?"

His eyelids fluttered open. "Oh, Hawke… I, uh… sorry to bother you."

"What's going on? Did something happen at the clinic?"

"No. Well, yes, but…." He yawned and lifted a hand to cover his mouth, then stared at her fuzzily. "I figured you wouldn't mind if I just rested here a while. It's the only quiet place I could think of."

"It's fine," she said quickly. "But you look like shit. What happened?"

"I lost a patient today. A boy, maybe twelve years old," he said quietly, his eyes haunted. "I know it happens, but… it's never easy."

"I'm sorry." She sat down next to him but didn't look into his eyes. He was a healer, and that meant he belonged to everyone who needed him - a worthy cause in itself. The mage underground was every bit as vital to his existence though, and it rankled Finola to know he could lose everything because of that obsession. "So the templars weren't bothering you then?"

"Not today, for a change."

"Good, good." One less thing for her to worry about. As it was, she was taking so much heat from Meredith because of her association with Anders and Merrill, she didn't need more to stoke that fire. "So... would you like a drink? Some food?"

"Bodahn already took care of that." He made to stand up. "I'll just go now."

"You don't have to. Stay as long as you like," she prattled. "I have extra rooms, and it's not a bother at all." The truth was she was lonely for male companionship. Unfortunately, she was lonely for a _particular_ male's companionship, but Anders would do until Sebastian arrived.

Anders looked more than surprised. He looked stunned. "You're never quite _this_ accommodating. Have you gotten laid or something?"

"I wish," she said, unaware the words had left her mouth.

"That makes two of us," Anders snorted.

She couldn't help but chuckle then. "What a sorry couple of chumps we are, eh?"

He nodded with a grin. "You seem… unusually relaxed tonight, Hawke."

She shrugged. "Just so you know, Sebastian will be here shortly."

"So _that's_ it!" Anders smiled, rather roguishly, and Finola was enjoying this uncommonly light moment with him.

"If you're going to mock me, then get it over with already."

The tease was there, perched to come out, but his mouth snapped shut as he looked at her with genuine interest. "What do you see in him anyway? He acts more like a stodgy grandfather than a potential suitor. He's arrogant and condescending, far more annoying than Fenris. And you're not exactly religious."

"I'm learning from him, Anders," she said firmly, as if that explained everything. "He's patient and caring, not to mention that he's really quite intelligent."

"And crazy."

_Of course he's crazy_ , she told herself. _We all are_. "Look, I know you'll never agree with him," she said with a smile, correctly reading his joking manner, "but he's my friend, as are you. I only mentioned it to give you a heads up in case you didn't want to deal with him."

Anders made a noise that sounded like something between a grunt and a growl. Then she realized he was actually laughing when he spoke. "Are you sure you didn't get laid?"

"Quite sure." She grinned, despite herself. _It is good to see him so light-hearted_ , she thought. Surprisingly, she felt comfortable speaking openly with Anders, sensing he meant only to help with every word he said, no ulterior motive for his honest opinion. "And there are no prospects on the horizon either," she added.

"If you're ever looking for a man to change that fact, I think the Seneschal would oblige. I hear he's rather smitten with you."

"Bran? No, no." She smiled and waved her hands in a dismissive gesture. "We're just good friends. Who told you he's smitten with me?"

"It's just something I've heard around. Last time I saw him with you, I noticed it too." He raised his eyebrows. "He _could_ be a friend with benefits. Although…."

"Although what?"

Anders hadn't witnessed such a remarkable display of openness coming from her in ages. He decided to make the most of it. "I've seen plenty of men in love, myself included, and the way he looks at you… forget what I said about friends with benefits. A woman could break a man's heart easier than you know."

"Don't worry about Bran," she scoffed. "He has plenty of other options should he feel a sudden urge to fall in love."

"You should seriously consider him, Hawke. He's more in your league than Vael will ever be, prince or not. And he's not as promiscuous as he once was either."

The comment piqued her interest. "How do you know that?"

"The clinic is a hotbed of gossip. Every whore in town has been through once or twice. I know more about who's screwing who than you can imagine."

Her mind raced with curiosity now. "So, Bran's been staying away from the Rose, has he? He didn't mention that to me."

"Not just the Rose, Hawke." He looked her straight in the eye, and with a slight grin, said, "You know, the more I think about it, the more I believe he actually does have a thing for you. It makes perfect sense. No other woman can compare when you're in love."

_He can't be in love with me. He's my best friend!_ "Enough about him, okay?" Finola thought Bran understood why she was disinterested in a relationship with him long ago. Now she had another thing to worry about, negating the result of not having to worry about Anders for a day. She gazed out the window, lost in thought, until a loud crack of sizzling firewood startled her. When she looked at Anders, he was staring at her with a wistful expression.

"Hawke, I'm sorry. I'm sorry for getting you involved in this mess with the templars. It was never my intention to put you in danger's way."

Melancholy and regret had seeped in his voice, enough to make Finola's heart ache a little. "We'll handle things as they come, Anders. Just keep me informed. You know I hate being caught with my pants down." She chuckled, but her joke fell flat.

"It may be too late for that now."

She flinched at his serious tone. Wearing a forced mask of calm, she beat down the rapid panic rising from her stomach. "Too late? What does that mean?"

"Nothing for you to worry about," he said causally. "I can handle whatever they throw at me."

He spoke so calmly, but there was a shadow of desperation in his eyes she could not miss. "Don't do anything rash, Anders. It will only make it worse in the end."

"The end," he sighed. "It will _never_ end, Hawke. As long as mages are kept captive, it will never end. Hopefully, I can help their cause in some small way."

"You already have," she asserted. "I've seen the changes and… well, I wish I could have done more for the mages, but I've been placed in an awkward position by both Meredith and Orsino. I have to think of what is best for Kirkwall as a whole. Perhaps if I decide to take the Viscountess position…."

"We're standing at the crossroads now, Hawke. You will have to take a side eventually." He took a deep breath and steadied himself. "But I do admire your sincerity. I know you're just following your instincts."

She nodded. "We've both been dealt the cards, and now we just need to decide how to play them." If ever she felt a need to change the subject of a conversation, it was right then. "Come on, Anders, let's have a drink and forget that fucking mess for a while."

"That's the best idea I've heard from you yet." The look of relief on his face was so pure, so happy, she felt a pang of guilt for not having sought him out in recent months.

As they shared a drink and a few laughs, Finola had a feeling this would be the last time she would see Anders so relaxed. The tension brewing between the mages and the templars was coming to a head; they both knew it. So she made a toast to the future, wishing her friend luck and health, and Anders returned the gesture with another rare smile. For a few silent minutes, they sat next to each other, savoring the warmth of the fire, the calm and the quiet, their anxieties of the coming conflict put on hold.

And for the moment, that was enough.


	6. A Man Scorned

"You'll have to be on your guard now," Bran said as he stowed some documents inside the desk in his sitting room. "I've been hearing about heated arguments between Orsino and Meredith, mentions of speaking to Elthina to get her involved in their dispute. Both sides are at the tipping point."

"Maker, Bran, it doesn't have to escalate. Why can't they realize that? Well, I know why Meredith can't, and even Orsino seems a bit nuttier than usual lately." Finola leapt from the couch and jabbed the burning logs in the hearth with a poker. "Sections of Kirkwall are still not fully recovered from the Qunari incident, and now we need more trouble? I swear I can't wait to leave this place."

Bran pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath. It wasn't his head having trouble with her comment, but his heart, the thought of her leaving pained him more than he liked to admit. Slowly he raised his gaze to hers. "Planning to run off from our fair city soon?"

"Oh, I don't know… I'm just babbling. Some day, I hope."

A small amount of relief loosened his muscles as she peeked out the window, the sun setting on another afternoon spent with Finola.

"Speaking of fanatics," she said turning to him, "Anders was over my house the other day."

"And what did the apostate say to you this time? Something like 'How can you allow Meredith to practically sit in the viscount's seat and control Kirkwall?'"

Finola spun around laughing, amused by Bran's impression of Anders. "Actually, we didn't discuss anything too controversial. He told me a few rumors he's heard at the clinic. You know, whose husband is cheating, who's unmarried and pregnant." She stepped closer to him, her grin a warning sign. "Who has been avoiding the Blooming Rose lately…." An eyebrow rose, and for a second, Finola saw every muscle in his body tense, but he remained silent. "Is it really true, Bran?"

"Don't be so gullible," he answered in a not-so-interested voice.

"You're not denying it," she sang. "Holy Maker, Bran, have you reformed?" She moved closer, her eyes wide with mocking disbelief. "I must be dreaming!"

"I'm not interested in your insolence at the moment." He lowered his eyes to the cup of water in his hand. "Drop this line of questioning, please."

"No way! Come on Bran, tell me what's changed." For every step he took away from her, she took one closer to him, annoying him and causing him to sigh repeatedly. "Haven't any pretty young things moved into Hightown lately? You must be bored with the same old whores at the Rose, even though I heard there was a new one who looked like me!" Her teasing words were delivered with a smoothness intended to calm the bristling anger she saw him holding below the surface. But it wasn't going too well.

"I'm serious, Fin," he said in a low growl. "Back off."

But she didn't. She pushed again. "Would you like to hear Anders' theory?"

"The mad apostate's theory is exactly what I _don't_ want to hear."

"He thinks you're holding out for me," she chirped.

"Haven't you ever considered the possibility that I am?" he asked, gazing at her askance.

"Oh, very funny." Her heart twitched, giving a funny little flutter. Sometimes she hated when he teased her right back. "You can confide in me, Bran. I won't make fun of you."

"Of course you will."

"Please? I'm just curious. You can't expect me to believe you've given up sex for good."

"Do you really want to know?" She nodded her head with such an innocent look on her face, he could have tackled her to the floor and kissed her senseless. _Honesty or dishonesty?_ he asked himself. _Something in between..._. "I have been too busy at the Keep and too tired afterward to indulge."

"And that's your excuse? I'm not buying it."

 _Damn her_. His teeth gnashed together. "Do not press me, Finola. I am in _no_ mood."

"Why do you look as if you are going to be sick, Bran? You never had a problem with my wise cracks before."

"Yes, for some perverse reason, I usually do enjoy your smart-ass remarks." The sternness on his face softened, but he let a sneer flicker on his upper lip as he glanced at her. "Right now, I am _not_ enjoying them."

"Where's your sense of fun? Abstinence has made you a bore, it seems."

Suddenly he looked upset, very upset, his body language giving away the truth. "Why do you spend time with me, Fin? If you think me such a bore, why do you seek my company?"

"I was only kidding," she said in her defense. "I _do_ have fun with you. You're witty and you make me laugh. You cheer me up when-"

"Am I just your court jester then," he cut in, "existing only to provide comic relief? I guess I'm also your little puppet on a string you take out to play with when you're bored."

"No!" She heard the angry undertones in his voice and didn't want to add any more fuel. "That's not what I meant at all. You're twisting my words."

"If you were more eloquent with your answer, perhaps I'd better understand you."

"Why are you being mean to me now?" She threw up her hands and shook her head. "You're my closest friend, Bran, and I have no one else I can talk to," she said in a voice so low he could barely hear her. Surprised and angry, she felt like shutting down and not talking anymore, but he wouldn't let it go.

"Your closest friend?" He laughed aloud at that. "I can imagine how your enemies must feel then." When she didn't respond, he took another route. "What am I saying that isn't getting through to you?"

"What do you want me to do?" she asked, shooting him a defiant look. "Should I get down on my knees and apologize for teasing you? For Maker's sake, I'm sorry! Is that what you want to hear?" It was a cry of surrender, or maybe a plea for mercy and compassion. "Tell me what you want from me!"

"What I want from you?" Bran looked mystified. He repeated himself. "What I _want_ from you?"

"Yes! Are _you_ confused now?"

His face was reddening, and he moved a step closer to her. "I want you to know me the way I know you."

"I've known you for years, Bran. I'm an expert on you by now." It took everything she had not to match his movement with a step back, the fire in his eyes shaking her some, but she stood her ground as he approached.

"If you really knew me well..." In truth, there were only a few irrelevant details she didn't know about him. What could he confess to her, but one thing — that he loved her. He paused to take a breath. "I want you to desire me as I do you. It is that simple."

"You want me to be your... your what? Your mistress? Is that what this about?"

He rushed her then, pinning her to a wall with his chest. He felt her draw a breath, and he briefly looked down to the very familiar mounds of flesh straining under the force of his weight. Her eyes were so big he thought they might pop out of her head as she glanced nervously around the room, avoiding eye contact. She pushed at his arms halfheartedly while trying to get her next breath.

"Be still, Fin. Just listen to me."

"Bran, you're… acting weird, and I don't like it."

She held her breath as he lowered his face to hers. His lips covered hers in a gentle yet passionate kiss, then he whispered softly into her ear. "You want me tell you the details of my private life, and yet your personal life is never open for discussion."

"I've told you some things," she said, somewhat breathlessly.

"Very little, because there _is_ nothing to tell me."

She was silent for a long moment before she whispered, "Sebastian needs me."

"Not only does he not deserve you, but he does not need _you…_ just your influence. His sort doesn't need anyone."

"That's where you're wrong. He may not know it, but I have something he lacks, something he… he," she stammered. "He needs me to… to…."

"Open your eyes, woman." He knew what he was about to say was cold, callous, that it might break her heart, and his heart too seeing her reaction to his words. He groaned in frustration. _Someone has to tell her…._ "Vael is using you, just like almost everyone else you know uses your status and influence. Most of your so-called friends have no interest in your happiness unless it affects their lives somehow."

"But not you, right?" She remained still, but he saw the tears glistening in her eyes when she looked up at him.

"I would never use you like he has, Fin. Vael wants Starkhaven, not you. You are the means to the end and nothing more to him. " She closed her eyes, holding back tears, but he had to make her see, make her understand that she'd been blinded by her naiveté. "He shares only his burdens with you. What has he done for you over the years? He wasn't there for you when your mother died and for countless other personal crises, but _I_ was. Has he ever given you a gift, taken you on a romantic walk, or told you how beautiful you are?" She opened her mouth but remained silent. "Don't bother. I already know the answer."

"You don't know me," she said in a strange whisper. "What I want or what I need. You think you do, but…."

He wrapped her in his arms, his every thought one of tenderness and love. She let him caress her as he spoke, touching her cheek lightly, letting his thumb wipe away her tears.

"I know everything about you, Fin. The way you walk, the way you smell, the way you think." He held her tighter, protectively, his eyes boring into hers, insistent. She didn't resist. "I know the way you feel when I hold you in my arms like this, when I see the longing in your eyes. I know a part of you desperately needs to be valued and loved. Deep inside you, hidden from all the others, you resent having to provide the right answers all the time, to feel the right feelings, think the right thoughts, all in order to be loved. It's a disguise you wear well." Bran held her even tighter in his embrace, more possessive than he had ever been in his life. "You're searching for a man who values you, who makes you happy and shows you warmth and love. But Sebastian Vael will _never_ be that man. Never."

"And so what?" she asked incredulously. "Are you saying you are the man for me? Because if that's what you're saying, I think you're cr-"

He captured her face with his hands and gave her a searing kiss she was guaranteed to remember, erasing any lingering doubts of his affection for her. He traced his fingers along her jaw line, his eyes darkening, and he leaned forward, gazing at her. "Every time you're this close and I can't touch you, every time you look at me like you are right now and I can't kiss you… No more, Fin. I can't do it anymore."

He let go of her and leaned back, away from the warmth of her body. She gazed at him in shock as he walked toward the door and held it open.

"Please leave."

" _What_? I don't… why do you want me to go?"

"I don't owe you any more explanations, Fin. Just get out," he told her through clenched teeth, his voice cold.

"How can you be so mad at me when I was just teasing you before?"

"That is exactly the problem, Fin. Please don't play any more games. I don't have the patience for them."

"I'm not playing games with you, Bran. I swear I'm not. I'm just…This is a little confusing to me right now." She looked up and met his empty gaze, tears in her eyes. "I feel like I'm losing my _fucking_ mind."

Before he could respond, she left him, slamming the door behind her and breaking into a run.

He sighed. In a day or two, she would see things were not as miserable as she must be imagining. He would stay away from her, let her think of him, process his bold admission, hoping it would not take too long for her to come to the realization that she loved him every bit as much as he loved her. In any case, Finola was predictable, and if she got lonely enough, she would probably seek him out.

He would give her the time, as much as she needed, or maybe only as much as he could stand. In the interim, he would keep an ear out for new developments involving Meredith and Orsino. Maker knew Finola would be dragged into any conflict rising between those two.

Besides, how could a man be unhappy when the woman he loved lived just across the courtyard?


	7. A Natural Woman

**A Natural Woman**

Finola ran from him, fleeing from the passionate words Bran had whispered in her ear. Sprinting out across the now darkened courtyard, she raced past the well-trimmed shrubbery to the front door, stumbling into her house and tripping over a rug. _This damned rug is always curled!_ Swearing to herself as she bounded up the stairs, taking them two at a time, everything inside her began shutting down. She pinched her eyes closed. The world seemed empty, no comfort anywhere; even her home ceased to be a refuge. Slamming the door to her chambers, her resolve failed, and she fell sobbing upon her bed.

She wouldn't let him see her like that again, she was certain. Her vulnerability, her confusion, the terrible guilt tearing through had been on full display, and it was pathetic. She would keep her distance from him, if only for her own peace of mind. But by the Maker, insane as it was, she desperately wanted him to hold her, to soothe the ache away.

_How does he slip inside my head like that?_

Finola couldn't shake the certainty that he knew and understood things about her that she'd never suspected about herself. He could see everything going through her head while he shielded his own thoughts. And why did that feel acceptable? Actually, it felt better than acceptable. He knew how to make her feel _good_ , which had been a rare commodity over the last few months.

_Why does he want me so damned much though? I'm nothing special, never have been…._

It would have been easy to suggest that her youth had captivated Bran, which she saw no reason to deny. But there were many women more beautiful, more appealing than she was. She didn't think _so_ little of herself, didn't think she wasn't worthy, but men did not fall instantly in love with her. That sort of thing had never happened to her. He saw something in her that struck his fancy though. She had known that from day one.

He'd almost worshipped her earlier. Yet there was no denying a man like Bran could have any woman he wanted. At least a dozen came to mind who would arrive at his beck and call. Why did he want her to be with him, to be there in his house, every possible moment she could spare? Did he want her money? No, he had plenty and made a show of it regularly buying whatever wanted, no regard to cost. _Maybe he sees me as a challenge._ Was it her naiveté and innocence that made her attractive? Did he just want her body? Her very soul? She buried her face in her hands, groaning melodramatically. She could not possibly guess what he was actually after, and there were no answers forthcoming.

"His words are just words," she stated to her reflection in the mirror, "like any other man's. He'll say anything to get what he wants. Flatter me and tell me lies."

Gazing at herself, she looked to see if her face had turned ugly under the influence of her emotional state. But it was a shrouded face, which had long since ceased to show what she truly felt. "What _does_ he see in me?" she whispered, closely peering. Her hair was tightly wound in a bun, strangling any hope of playfulness and vivacity. _Now I know why_ _Bran hates my bun_. She let her hair down and brushed it; it _was_ pretty, wavy and flaxen, but still nothing remarkable.

Running her hands along her curves, she felt her body, her softly rounded breasts, her firm muscles and well proportioned curves. "But my shoulders look wide, and my hands are absurdly large, and I'm so tall… definitely a bit too zaftig and robust for real beauty." She slumped into the chair and sighed. "Why do I even care what Bran thinks or wants? I certainly don't need his approval."

She stared at herself blankly, all at once overwhelmed with a wave of desolation. Grateful for the late hour and the darkness, she dove into bed and pulled the covers all the way up to her nose. _Maker damn that man!_

Even after tossing and turning for a couple of hours, she'd dropped off to sleep only to be tormented by dreams of him. She groaned, slowly easing herself up into a sitting position, unable to drift off enough to get real rest before dawn.

An epic struggle continued in her mind; should she tell him about her thoughts? Telling him might hurt him in the end, and not telling him would hurt no one. But his kiss as his hands held her face earlier had swept away every thought of Sebastian, and Maker, Bran turned her on.

_Why am I getting nervous all of a sudden? Bah. He's nothing but a self-centered jackass._ With furrowed brows, she shook her head. "No, he isn't," she whispered into the light sheet covering her mouth.

There were many who assumed Bran was entirely driven by status, snobby and arrogant, and he was, to a degree. Finola often thought his pretentiousness was just a pose meant to satisfy the hunger people had for drama, for the way of life of the aristocracy, something to strive toward or gossip about. His posturing was always so honest and confident, allowing everyone to see his distaste, disappointment, or amusement. _So bold_ , she thought. But with Finola he was so much more. Maybe she _was_ the only person in Kirkwall who saw him clearly. Aside from all his obvious flaws and vanities and wicked indulgences, he was kind, sensitive, knowledgeable and… well, devilishly good fun. She saw him and loved him, like a frustrated parent loves their rebellious child. But it wasn't familial love she had felt when he'd kissed her.

_I wish everyone else saw the other side of him._

Just knowing what she did to him, knowing that with every caress, every touch, she drove him crazy… When she laughed, an incredible rush of warmth seemed to emanate from him, filling him with delight. _She_ did that to him. She knew the attraction he felt for her, a deep need to make her his own. She merely had to glance his way and sizzling heat coursed through his veins and shot out in his gaze. It boosted her ego to know she could have that effect on a man. She saw it again earlier, when his whole face had been ablaze with passion. And he let her see it, throwing it at her with all the power of a hailstorm.

She wished she had appreciated the sentiment at the time. But what did she do in return? Instead of thanking the Maker for their closeness, and appreciating that she could trust him with her darkest secrets, she teased him, knowing the truth of his affection for her. She should have felt honored he allowed her to see his heart, but she betrayed him, all but using his affection for her against him.

_How could I have been so selfish?_

It occurred to her that they were not the most conventional of friends. As far as she knew, nobody else cuddled with their friends on a couch in front of a roaring fire, sipping whiskey and trading flirtations. She thought about the barriers between her and Sebastian, the lines never crossed, not even accidentally. Something stirred inside her. _Have I loved Bran as more than a friend all along_?

Her life seemed emptier the times she wasn't with him. Through his eyes, she saw how beautiful she was, how her confidence in herself grew. She cherished every moment with him, every minute they spent together. Finola could no longer imagine life without him in some capacity.

Her body tightened as she felt her heart beat faster. The one thing she knew was she wanted to be near him now. Too many minutes had slipped away already. She tossed the covers aside and climbed out of bed. Finola had to make sense of it all, and Bran was the only person who could help her.

* * *

After dressing within minutes and having a quick bite to eat, she flew out the door… and crashed straight into Sebastian, knocking him off balance and backward.

He regained his footing, looking at her with genuine confusion. "Where are you going, Hawke?"

"Where are _you_ going?" she shot back, narrowing her eyes.

"To get you. Have you heard already?"

"Heard what?"

"Meredith has accused Orsino of harboring blood mages. She wants to lock up all the mages and search the tower from top to bottom."

" _What_? Oh, Maker, I knew things were tense, but this… shit!"

"We must hurry, Hawke," he said as he took her by the arm. "Orsino has threatened to take the matter to Elthina. We _cannot_ let him go to her."

Her mind raced. _I've got to see Bran first_. When she glanced at his house, she saw him, his back to the courtyard, locking up for another day's work at the Keep. She shook her head, pulling her arm away from Sebastian's grasp. "Stay right here," she ordered, and then ran off. "Bran!"

Bran looked over his shoulder, his brows furrowing for a moment, and the sight of her eased the tension that had been draining him. _Well, that didn't take long._ But as she drew closer, the look on her face sent a chill up his spine. "What's wrong, Fin?"

"You were right," she said. "Meredith and Orsino have finally gone over the edge. I have to go to them and make them see sense."

"I'll go with you," he asserted.

"No! Stay here, please. There's no point risking your life. Whatever you say will fall on deaf ears anyway."

"You don't have to go either. Let them bloody kill each other _without_ your assistance."

"You know I can't do that." She stepped closer and reached her hand out to touch his arm. "Everyone is waiting for me, Bran. Just… stay safe. Don't venture outside until I come back."

"I seem to recall a similar warning when the Arishok finally went mad." He took her hand and squeezed it, trusting her judgment once more. "You had better come back in one piece, Finola Hawke."

"I will. And Bran, I… I've thought things through and I understand where you're coming from now. I honestly do." Her gaze remained calm, voice steady, despite what she felt inside. "I promise when I get back, we'll talk about… everything, if that's all right with you?"

He nodded, the slight smirk that crossed his lips infuriating and thrilling at once.

Embracing her very gently, he could not resist kissing her forehead, ignoring the baleful glare coming from Vael. She didn't stiffen against him or feign any type of unwillingness or reluctance, and this, more than anything, contented him. "I'm sorry," he whispered at the exact moment she said the same.

They pulled back, both laughing softly. When her eyes met his, her expression became something more than one of mere friendly appreciation. "You _do_ know me like no other, Bran. You know how my heart has been bound up these last years, and still, you stayed by my side." With an indescribable smile, she slowly bowed her head and spoke, only the slightest tremble betraying the depth of her feelings. "You're very special to me, and you don't deserve what I've been doing to you. I don't know what I'm to do about it, but I can't give you up either. I'm selfish that way." She looked up and smiled a peculiar smile that had always been one of her greatest charms, because it was rare and exceptionally sweet. "I have to make some changes in my life, and I'm asking for your help to do that."

He searched her eyes and saw surrender there. "Of course I'll help you _." Don't go_ , he wanted to say. _Please, don't go_.

"Well, now that we've cleared the air," she said, smiling brightly, "I feel like I can conquer the world."

"This is not a joking matter," he reprimanded her, his voice as hard as steel, yet full of concern. "How can you be so flippant at a time like this?"

"I'm… relieved. I thought maybe you'd be too angry to speak with me." She had never seen his eyes look so stormy, but she realized it wasn't anger that churned in their depths.

"Just be careful, Fin." He turned pale as he spoke. "If anything were to happen to you…."

She looked into his eyes with a reassuring smile. "Don't worry about me."

"I always do," he said, fighting off the ridiculous urge to imprison her for her own safety.

"I know." Sebastian's arm was suddenly around her shoulders, herding her away. Finola's expression shuttered as she cast one last look in Bran's direction. "See you later, Bran," she said with forced composure in her voice.

Finola departed, turning back to look at him once more before breaking into a run. _Maker, keep him safe. Keep us all safe._


	8. Blessed Are the Peacekeepers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first part of the final showdown, when Hawke must chose a side and deal with Anders. I had already mentioned how Finola handled the destruction of the Chantry by Anders' hand in the main story, Release from the Chains, so there was no turning back.
> 
> Fair warning: character death lies ahead.

Ash and debris rained down from the sky, the Chantry obliterated, along with every soul inside. Moans of sheer agony, shouts and whimpers alike, smothered Finola like a demon's cloak as the bystanders scattered and sought refuge.

In a moment of torturous panic, her head snapped around to confirm Sebastian was standing near her. There he was, crouching down, his face twisted, his piercing and mournful cries adding a deeper horror to the scene.

_There can be no turning back. There can be no peace._

Anders' words just before the explosion echoed in her mind. _Truer words were never said_ , Finola thought for a moment. _No. No! He's wrong._ _Damn Anders… or Justice or Vengeance!_

Her eyes went to the silent mage, his expression unmoving, not the least bit repentant, not despairing like the vacant gazes in the sea of confused people surrounding her.

He did this? _Anders_ did this.

"The Grand Cleric has been slain by magic, the Chantry destroyed." Knight-Commander Meredith stood nearby, her eyes on the plume of smoke darkening the skies over Kirkwall.

Finola stumbled through the crowd, ignoring the admonishing seriousness of Meredith's words. When Meredith shouted something about the Right of Annulment, a hush fell over the crowd, the quiet before the storm.

"You fool," the First Enchanter seethed at Anders. "You've doomed us all! Champion, you cannot let her do this," Orsino shrieked, rage and fear erupting from his very soul.

Finola cried out, "Shut up! All of you just shut up," but her mouth had never opened. The screaming raged in her head, tearing her apart, giving her new pain as she filled with grief that seemed to have no end. How foolish she had been to think Anders was harmless.

Sebastian was on his knees, sobbing, praying, his head bowed in a trancelike state. Her other companions stood motionless, shocked and waiting for her direction. Then Meredith's voice rang out in the silence.

"Every mage in the Circle is to be executed – immediately."

Finola grabbed the Knight-Commander's arm, her fingers biting into flesh. "Are you insane, Meredith? That will only cause more useless bloodshed."

Waiting for the Knight-Commander to reply, Finola spotted Sebastian marching toward her, anger and sorrow erupting from deep within him. "Why are we debating the Right of Annulment? The monster who did this is right here!"

"Sebastian is right. You cannot punish every mage for the act of one." As blood roared through Finola's veins, something snapped in her head, tearing her mind to bits, and she pointed at Anders. "Their blood is on _his_ hands and his alone. I will… take care of Anders, and his punishment, but I will not be involved in a bloody battle between the templars and the mages!"

"You are already involved, Champion. The people will demand blood," Meredith stated with a calm Finola could not begin to understand. "You _must_ fight by my side."

Finola's eyes darted from Meredith to Orsino and back to the Knight-Commander again. Every mage in the Circle had been ripped from their families as a child, punished and imprisoned for being born with magical abilities. They were often made to suffer at the hands of oppressive templars, stripped of their possessions, their freedom, their pride. The image of her sister, Bethany, came to mind, then her father, a proud and honorable man, a mage. Though their time together had been short, Finola had never forgotten the sacrifices her father had made to keep their family safe. Yes, magic has caused her own family heartache, just as magic was causing the overwhelming grief of those around her now. But not every mage was Anders.

Finola stood her ground, preparing to fight a battle she had no chance of winning. With a single moment of decision, she straightened, steeling herself, and moved toward the Knight-Commander. "I will not help you, Meredith."

"Think carefully, Champion. If you stand with these maleficarum, you will share their fate."

"I would prefer their fate to yours. The templars have strength and abilities that far outweigh the mages. They will need my help to survive this… extermination you see as a solution. I will not allow the templars to rule over this city by slaughtering half the population needlessly!"

"You are a fool, Champion." Meredith smirked, pleased with herself, and pleased with the pending battle. "I will allow you some time to prepare yourselves while I rouse the rest of my Order. Then we shall see the fatal consequences of your decision."

"Thank the Maker," Orsino breathed as Meredith strutted away. "I will leave your… friend for you to deal with. Now, I must return to the Gallows. Meet me there as soon as you can."

"Orsino," Finola snapped, stopping him in his tracks. "Do not think for one moment that I approve of your methods either. I am simply helping the weaker faction in this idiotic fight. But you will have to answer some questions when this is over, if we all make it out alive."

"Certainly," he said with a look in his eyes that seemed to suggest he was defying someone, but at the same time, she saw resignation there. It was the look of a man who expected death, and Finola shivered.

"Your first act," Sebastian said, breaking Finola's glare at the departing First Enchanter, "must be to execute this traitor."

Finola watched Anders, perched on a crate, hunched over and rocking, waiting. How was she going to do this? Mere days before, Anders had been in her library with her, sharing a drink and a few laughs. After all the years they had spent together, she had finally felt connected to him, looking upon him as a friend. In the deepest recesses of her heart, she only felt disgust and bitter hatred for Anders now, but not just for him. She resented Orsino and Meredith as well, despised them for refusing to compromise, leading them all to this end, leading Finola to this decision.

If only Anders would resist, fight back, then she could kill him in self-defense. Never in her life had she hesitated to kill someone who posed a threat to herself or her family and friends. But now, she was to be executioner for one of the finest healers in all of Kirkwall, perhaps even all of Thedas.

Anders sensed her uncertainty, heard her heavy sighs. "There is nothing you can say that I haven't already said to myself, Hawke. Kill me now before there is nothing left of me."

Finola moved to stand in front of him, her penetrating glare willing him to look into her eyes and explain, but his gaze never left the ground. "It was never up to you to decide how things should be, Anders. Why? Why didn't you talk to me?" she asked, a hint of resignation seeping into her words. "I might have understood if you'd only told me. I could have… We could have tried another approach, one less like a radical and more like a peacemaker. What am I supposed to do with you now?"

Sebastian grabbed Finola by the shoulder, spinning her around to face him. "You almost sound as if you're condoning what he's done!"

"Please, Sebastian, you _know_ I don't condone what he's done. I'm just trying to figure out if there is a better way to handle this, a more appropriate punishment. He _should_ face his crimes as any other criminal. He should be put forward and judged." _Damn it, what would Bran advise? Shit, he wouldn't care either way. He'd tell me to do what I thought-_

Sebastian seized her arm and pulled Finola away, directing Fenris to assume responsibility for Anders with a point of his finger. Lifting his head, Sebastian searched her face, his eyes frozen, dazed, almost as if he weren't seeing her at all, but looking through her. "He dies, or I am returning to Starkhaven, and I will bring such an army with me on my return that there will be nothing left of Kirkwall for these maleficarum to rule."

"What are _saying_? You sound crazy!" She took in a calming breath, then loudly expelled it. "I understand your grief and anger, but to threaten the entire city?" An edge of fury clung to her words. "And what about me? Would you crush me beneath your righteous feet too?"

"No, no. I…." When he looked at her finally, his eyes were filled with tears, no blame or condemnation in his gaze. "I'm… I'm sorry, Hawke, I'm not myself. I just don't know what to think anymore. Elthina was like a mother to me, and I failed her. I swore to protect her and…." he trailed off wearily.

"You can't let this eat you up. Believe me, I know. Anders is to blame for Elthina's death, not you," she said, more forcefully than she intended. Finola shook of her head, a flash of annoyance in her eyes. "Maker, Sebastian, hold yourself together and do not make this any harder for me than it already is." Then her tone changed once again, to rational and caring. "I have to end this, all of this, but I need you by my side. We will do this together, all right?" He acquiesced silently, but there was a look of questioning anxiety on his face that spoke volumes. Turning on her heels, Finola strode toward Anders, muttering something about no one knowing what they were doing in all this confusion.

Fenris put a hand on Sebastian's shoulder and gestured with his head, indicating to back away from Finola and Anders. Leaning toward Sebastian, he spoke low, but there was eagerness in his tone, and in his expression. "Let Hawke take care of the abomination. This is not the time to consider your future political maneuverings."

Sebastian nodded, finding it hard to come up with more words as he watched Finola talk to the apostate.

"Was this your idea or was it Justice's?" she asked Anders.

"Vengeance… took me over. I couldn't stop him, and there was nothing you could say or do to change that."

"Oh, bullshit! You _must_ have had this planned for a while. For fuck's sake, Anders, you could have helped restore order to Kirkwall and instead you've created more chaos! "

"Stop arguing and kill him already!" Sebastian cut in, frustrated and itching to finish off the apostate himself. "The Grand Cleric deserves justice without delay, Hawke."

"And I would not deny anyone that," Anders said. "The sooner I die, the sooner my name lives on to inspire generations."

"Although I'm sure some people here would like to see me carve you up into small pieces," Finola said, looking directly at Sebastian, and then Fenris, "I won't do that. You _will_ pay, however, and you will be _no_ martyr. If I have to spend the rest of my life doing so, I will ensure your name does _not_ live on as some sort of sacrificial savior." Leaning forward, she spoke so only Anders could hear her. "Clearly you have never cared about any of us, about me, but my hands are now as bloody as yours because I was blind to your plans. And for that, I hate you, Anders. But I am not without mercy."

"For what it's worth, I'm glad it's you," Anders whispered.

His words shocked her, almost crippling her resolve, but she didn't give in. Unable to respond, Finola unsheathed a dagger, drawing comfort from its familiar feel and weight, mentally preparing to strike quickly. She stared at the razor-sharp blade, her hand trembling slightly as adrenalin coursed through her, every eye on her, every breath held in unbearable expectation.

From inside a pocket, she pulled out a vial and coated the tip of her blade with a small amount of pink liquid. "For all the times you've saved my life and the lives of our companions…" Finola looked at Sebastian, his recognition of the anesthetic agent obvious; her merciful gesture was a surprise to everyone watching. Sebastian nodded, but for some unfathomable reason, she saw a glimmer of disapproval in his eyes. However, he hadn't volunteered to take Anders' life in her stead, and Finola would do as she saw fit. With an imperceptible nick to Anders' neck, she counted to three, then plunged the dagger downward, burying it deep between his shoulder blades. "Sorry," she whispered as his life drained away.

It wasn't noble, sticking a knife into his back, but she felt no pity for Anders, or for anyone else as she watched the mage stiffen and collapse to the ground. Perhaps that was why she said she was sorry. All she cared about was the impending battle. Finola bent over and pulled the dagger from his back, leaving his blood on the blade as a reminder.

Sebastian went to her, offering her his arm, and then he led her away from the stares and the whispers. "Hawke, you did the right thing." She nodded slowly. He watched her long enough to be sure of her agreement, and then he nodded, too. "Good," he said with a small smile.

"If he had only fought back, struggled instead of accepting his fate… I've been a fool." She looked at Sebastian, a small self-deprecating frown on her lips, then she shut her eyes. "What does the Maker think of me now, hm? One killer killing another. At least I saved you all the guilt of having to do it yourselves."

"No, Hawke," he whispered. "'Foul and corrupt are they who have taken His gift and turned it against His children.' You bear no sin in this. Anders paid for the lives of dozens of innocents. It will never be enough, but it's a start."

A single word of affection would have given her courage and strength to persevere, but here he was preaching to her, assuring her that she had done the right thing in the eyes of the Maker! A sudden revulsion caused Finola to become indifferent, then indignant. Fearing a volatile argument, she walked away and addressed her silent companions.

"I would have preferred not to choose sides, but the mages are weaker and need our support now. I'm certain some mages will turn to blood magic in desperation, and the templars are now my enemies. Innocent people _will_ be hurt. All we can hope to do is keep the casualties to a minimum." She pointed in the direction of the Gallows, shouting a rallying cry to her party. "I _will not_ allow Kirkwall, our home, to go up in flames! We will eliminate all those who threaten our city. If you are with me in this, then follow me to the Gallows. If not," she paused, her steely gaze fixed resolutely on her companions, "good luck to you."

The crowd parted, moving aside for their Champion, and those trailing behind her in silence. Cries of "mercy" rang out as the first blows were struck in an alleyway, a handful of mages having already resorted to blood magic, demons turning on everyone who approached. Finola ran into the fray, her blades twirling in her hands, dismembering anything in her path as she pressed on toward the Gallows.


End file.
